


timekeeper

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, Happy Ending, M/M, Time Travel, horomancy, post 4x13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 05:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20286013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: “How the fuck did I agree to this?”“I think the better question is why didn’t we stop Eliot from knocking Stoppard out,” Julia murmurs, staring down at Stoppard's sleeping body. “That’s definitely something we could have done.”Eliot looks over his shoulder at them, his hand slipping from the edge of the window. “Would you two stop wasting time and tell me how to work this fucking thing?” When Penny turns a glare on him, Eliot simply offers a glare right back and motions towards the mirror. “Please.” He adds obligingly, when Julia pointedly raises her eyebrows at him. His hand slowly falls until Penny sighs and moves around him, gently shoving Eliot out of the way.--Or. Eliot uses Stoppards machine to say goodbye to Quentin.





	timekeeper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anna_malave94](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=anna_malave94).

> Written to help support of Jason Ralph's Covenant House International Sleep Out Fundraiser. Check out @Drabbles4Jason on Twitter to see how you can get one of your own.

“How the fuck did I agree to this?” 

“I think the better question is why didn’t we stop Eliot from knocking Stoppard out,” Julia murmurs, staring down at Stoppard's sleeping body. “That’s definitely something we could have done.” 

Eliot looks over his shoulder at them, his hand slipping from the edge of the window. “Would you two stop wasting time and tell me how to work this fucking thing?” When Penny turns a glare on him, Eliot simply offers a glare right back and motions towards the mirror.  _ “Please.” _ He adds obligingly, when Julia pointedly raises her eyebrows at him. His hand slowly falls until Penny sighs and moves around him, gently shoving Eliot out of the way.

“Next time you wanna do something stupid,” Penny mutters under his breath as he tweaks the controls on the window, “Leave me out of it.” His fingers pause on a button before he sighs again, and turns away from the window. “You only get five minutes,” He says. “Any longer than that and you’ll be at risk for some serious—“

“Don’t care. How does it work?” He attempts to shove past Penny, but Penny stands firm, and holds a hand out, pressing in on Eliot’s chest almost painfully. “What are you doing? Move.” 

“Not until you agree to the time limit,” He says, “You may not see much reason to live, but, there are people who still care about you. And I’m not going to go back and tell them you melted your own brain to talk to your dead boyfriend.” 

Eliot’s lip twitches, “Don’t,” he all but growls,  _ “Ever _ talk about Quentin—“ 

“Then agree to the fucking time limit or say goodbye to saying goodbye.” 

Eliot’s heart clenches, and he moves in, sneering “You wouldn’t—“

“Fucking  _ try  _ me,” Penny hisses, “I didn’t even  _ want  _ to bring you here. I have no problem turning it off and traveling us all the out of here before you even get the chance to think about stopping me.” 

Swallowing, Eliot takes a careful step back and reaches up to brush his hair back. “Okay,” He says, letting his gaze move down to look at the machinery for the window. “Okay,” he repeats, clenching his jaw. “I—I’ll respect the time limit. Just. Let me say goodbye.” His eyes dart up to meet Pennys. “Please. He’s—dead because of me. I can’t just . . . I  _ need  _ to see him.” 

Penny nods once, before stepping to the side. Eliot moves in to take his place. 

“Remember you can’t warn him,” Julia says, soft, from her place in the doorway. “We don’t know how it’d change things . . . as much as I want him alive, too, Eliot. You  _ cannot  _ warn him.” 

Eliot nods without looking at her. “Yeah, okay. No warning him.” He rests his hands on the side of the machine, stares through the window. Wonders where he should meet him. Not too far back. Not too soon, either. It has to be—god, it has to be while the monsters still in his body, doesn’t it? He barely hears the door click as it closes behind Penny and Julia, he’s so lost in trying to figure out when he should find him. But when he looks over his shoulder to ask Julia, he realizes they’re gone, and he turns back to the machine.

A few weeks before his death. He won’t warn him, even if the need to do so rips his heart in half. But, he needs to give him something to fight for. 

He’s not sure why. He just knows he does. 

. . . Okay, that’s a lie. He knows exactly why. This is  _ all  _ his fault. It might not be because of what happened in the castle when they remembered everything . . . but Blackspire. When he pulled the trigger. He clenches his jaw and looks up at the ceiling, chin trembling as water stings at his eyes. Squeezing his eyes shut, he sniffs. The whiskey he’d downed before forcing Penny to bring them here burns at the edges of his consciousness, and he lifts one hand to cast away the buzz. Knows he has to do this sober. Needs to remember it.

Opening his eyes, vision suddenly clearer despite the beginnings of a migraine working at his temples, he inhales slow and deep. An attempt to level himself out. He can hear muffled conversation in the hallway, probably Penny and Julia discussing who’s going to be the one to interrupt should things go south. Eliot spares the door one quick annoyed glance before looking back down at the machine. 

He doesn’t remember any of his time as the monster. Has no memories of what the monster did or said or where he was. Nothing but his time in his happy place. Part of him wishes he could have that time back — even if it means seeing all the terrible things the monster did. If only to have the extra year of Quentin in his memories. For him to have more than a fleeting moment. 

But he doesn’t. 

So, he puts in a time at random.

And waits for him to appear. 

When he does, he’s leaning over a book. A bowl of soup remains untouched at his side. It looks like it’s been there for a while, Eliot figures, because there’s no steam rising up from it. Quentin’s fidgeting, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck, and Eliot tries not to think about how his own hand fits in that space so perfectly. There’s a warm ache spreading up through his chest, forming into a lump in his throat. He wants to call out to him, but god. He can’t make himself speak. Because it’s Quentin. _ Alive. _ He doesn’t look well, but that doesn’t matter as much. 

Because he’s a live, and Eliot— 

Eliot’s just overcome with how fucking  _ much  _ he loves him. 

Quentin must hear Eliot struggling to swallow down the lump in his throat, because his brow furrows and he looks up. His mouth falls open, and he jumps, crashing backwards into the counter behind him. “Jesus!” He exclaims, clutching at his chest. “What the—“ His eyes dart towards the door on the opposite side of the room, and back to where Eliot must be floating in front of him. “What the fuck—“ 

“Q,” Eliot chokes out, the sweet ease of fondness forcing itself through. God, Quentin’s a mess. It’s so recklessly familiar and beautiful. As achingly wonderful as it is  _ agonizing. _ “It’s—it’s me.” His voice is rough, choked up on everything he wants to say, needs to say, and  _ can’t _ say. 

Quentin blinks, stares at him for a long moment, before taking two unsteady steps forward, and grabbing at the edge of the counter. “Eliot?” He asks, the sound coming out more like a choked off whimper than any kind of real word. His eyebrows furrow, and Eliot’s heart lurches, as Quentin’s eyes go shiny with tears. 

“Yeah, Q.” He smiles, watery, and wants to reach out. Instead he strokes the side of the window. “Fuck,” he breathes. “I didn’t think this would be so hard.” His heart aches so much he’s worried it’s going to pound out of his chest, and his hand strokes restlessly at the side of the window, nail scratching at the sides of the metal desperately trying to find a way through. 

“I—“ Quentin starts. 

Eliot shakes his head, hand slowing it’s movements to grip the side of the window so fiercely tight that his knuckles turn white. “Wait.” Quentin’s mouth snaps shut, and Eliot leans in closer, desperation tugging at his gut. “We don’t—have a lot of time. I need. To tell you something.” 

Quentin watches him for a long moment, before a sort of understanding washes over him and his shoulders slump. “Oh,” he breathes, moving back to lean against the countertop behind him and crossing his arms lazily over his waist. “ . . . this is a spell. Something’s — you’re  _ you.” _ He moves around the counter, wrapping his arms around himself like a protective shield, or like he’s hugging himself, the way he used to when he was afraid Eliot wouldn’t because they were arguing. “Am I —” He breaks off, stopping and staring up at where Eliot must be floating in front of him. “El . . .” 

Eliot makes a face, before forcing his lips into a thin line, and shrugging.  _ Don’t, _ he thinks. Just,  _ don’t. _ “I can’t —tell you about your future.” 

Quentin falls back against the counter, a shocked little noise forcing itself out of his throat as Eliot looks down at the machine. “My —  _ future? _ Am I—” 

“I made a promise.” Eliot swallows, wills whatever pain and heartache from losing him he has to fade into the background. He looks back up, focuses on the way Quentin’s bangs are half hazard and sticking up in every direction like he hasn’t slept in days. This must be after he found him in the park after making it out of his happy place. His thumb strokes the side of the window. “I just—I need you to know something, Q. I can’t. Let. Things happen without you  _ knowing.” _

Quentin’s eyes are wide and glistening, and he looks like he has a million questions on the tip of his tongue, his arms wind around himself tighter like he’s forcing himself to hold them in. “Things? El, what —” 

“Please. I don’t have _ time.”  _ All the careful poise he’s been trying to hold washes out of him on the last word and it falls like a sob in the air between them, his stomach clenching. “I can’t — Q,  _ please.  _ I have to tell you.” 

Quentin tilts his head, and then nods. “Tell me.” He swallows, shifts so he’s standing up, steadying himself. “You can — you can tell me. Anything, El.” 

He’s always so willing to be brave for everyone else. 

Fondness seeps into Eliot’s veins. Icy tendrils of it spreading until they can wrap around his heart and clench down on it. He takes a deep breath. “I owe you an apology,” he murmurs, the jut of his hips digging into the machinery of the window as he presses in, trying to get as close to Quentin as he can. “I lied to you. And then I —” He breaks off, waits until the  _ got you killed  _ that urges its way into the end of the sentence fades to the back of his mind, and then continues. “I told you I wouldn’t choose you. That I — that you weren’t enough.” 

He pauses as Quentin falls back against the counter, his mouth snapping shut as he looks anywhere but at Eliot. His eyes flicker around the room, rampant and desperate, like he’s searching for something. Words. Moments. Eliot doesn’t know. Because he wasn’t there. Doesn’t know where Quentin’s mind is in this moment. 

“I — I was self sabotaging, Q.” He pauses again, licking his lips. “Because I — I knew that with you. I could be . . . god,  _ happy.” _ He breaks off, tearing his hands away from the window and raking through his hair so forcefully it hurts. Something warm dips out and over his cheek, and Quentin goes blurry as his lips go salty. “I was such a fucking idiot, Q.” 

“El—” 

“I  _ hurt  _ you.” He looks away, gut clenching and unclenching, as a broken little noises forces its way out. “And now I can’t even  _ fix  _ it because you—” He stops.

There’s a momentary pause, Eliot’s unsteady heartbeat in his ears, and the sound of Quentin’s breath hitching the only thing saving them from the silence. And then, Quentin asks, soft, “Eliot, what — what did I do?” 

He glances up at Quentin from beneath his eyelashes. They’re wet, clumped together, and his vision’s still blurry. But he can still see the cautious worry in the frown lines on Quentin’s forehead. “I promised,” he mutters. “I—” 

“Okay,” Quentin murmurs, moving in and nodding. “Okay. It’s okay.” 

He’s actually trying to fucking  _ comfort  _ Eliot. 

Eliot laughs sardonically, shaking his head. “It’s not.” 

He reaches up to wipe at his nose and glances at the door. He knows they’re listening. Waiting for him to break. He looks back at Quentin, rolling his lips in and biting down on his lower lip. Quentin’s staring at him, jaw slack and eyes wide. And all he wants to do is reach through the window and pull him through it. 

And, honestly? Fuck not changing anything. Fuck not potentially ruining the future. 

And  _ fuck  _ the bullshit promise. None of it matters without Quentin.

He stands up straight and sets his shoulders. Quentin’s eyebrows furrow as Eliot casts a spell — something quick that’ll barr them from getting through the door. It won’t keep them from getting in, but it’ll give Eliot a few extra seconds before Penny uses his powers to travel into the room. Out of all of them, Quentin at least deserves a fucking  _ chance  _ to survive. 

He grabs onto both sides of the window, prepares himself in case they plan to pull him away from it. He grips it tight and looks at Quentin meaningfully, blinking away the tears. He sets his jaw and Quentin stands up a little straighter, like he knows he needs to pay attention. And of course he does. 

“I love you,” Eliot says.  _ “I love you.  _ When the time comes, I don’t care how fucking scared you are—” Behind him, the doorknob jiggles frantically, a body slamming up against the door like they expected it to open, and they’d meant to push it forcefully, “you fucking  _ run.  _ Because you have time. You can run after you do it, Q. Please.  _ Run.”  _

Quentin’s eyes go wide, and he nods wordlessly.

“You fucking _ idiot.”  _

An arm wraps around Eliot’s chest, but he hangs tight, and he stares meaningfully through time and space, directly into Quentin’s eyes as the arm pulls him backwards. “If not for you, then for me,” He says, voice trembling,  _ “Run.” _

He manages to hear Quentin’s cut off, “Okay—” before his hands slip.

And then he’s in the penthouse, blinking up at the ceiling. 

His heart clenches, jaw going tight. He expects Penny to start yelling any second, but there’s only silence. He frowns, forcing himself to sit up, wincing as it pulls at his stomach. He’s alone. He sighs, letting his legs fall over the side of the couch, and setting his elbows on his knees. Runs a hand through his hair, and looks down at the floor. 

Footsteps sound behind him, coming down the stairs. 

He braces himself. 

“Hey. How did you get down here?” 

Freezes. 

The footsteps stop at the base of the stairs. “Eliot? Are you okay?” 

His heart pounds in his chest but he can’t make himself look. Can’t make himself believe or move or fuck, even  _ breathe. _ The footsteps start again, more hesitant, as they move across the living room towards him. A pair of familiar shoes stop just at the edges of Eliot’s peripheral. And a large, warm hand settles on his shoulder. 

He swallows thickly, slowly untangles his hands from his hair, and like his body is made of stone, twists his neck, eyebrows pinching painfully, to look over his shoulder. 

His heart clenches hard enough to hurt. 

“El?” 

“Q,” he replies, all the pent up air in his lungs rushing out with the syllable. 

Quentin watches him for a moment. There are deep, purple bags under his eyes. Cheeks are hollower, hair longer. He looks skinnier. Paler. 

But  _ alive. _

He twists further, reaches up to wrap his hand around Quentin’s wrist, holding his hand to Eliot’s shoulder. “You — listened to me.  _ You’re alive.” _

Quentin watches him for a beat, confusion slowly fading away to realization, before he nods slowly, carefully. Just once. “You remembered. I — uh. Wondered. If you would.” 

_ “You _ remember?” 

He nods again, before swallowing, his adam's apple bobbing. “I . . . had no idea what it meant. Until I did.” He moves around the couch his hand slipping off Eliot’s shoulder, even as Eliot keeps his hand wrapped around his wrist. He stands in front of Eliot, then, staring down at him, his hair slipping from its place over his ear. Offering a wobbly smile, he shrugs. “I wasn’t going to. But I saw the chance and I — I knew that was the moment. That you. You know.” 

Eliot brings his free hand up, wraps his fingers around Quentin’s palm. The hand on Quentin’s wrist moves up, loosening its grip until he’s barely grazing it along the sleeve of Quentin’s shirt, and up, up, until he’s leaning forward and brushing it over Quentin’s shoulder, and settling it on the back of his neck. Eliot’s eyes slide shut, and his chin dips down, sinus’ burning. 

He feels Quentin kneel in front of him, his arms following the movement. “Eliot . . .” 

“I just need a second.” 

“Okay,” Quentin breathes, breath shuffling Eliot’s hair. “Take all the time you need.” His free hand comes up and settles on Eliot’s waist, warmth from his arm radiating against Eliot’s thigh. 

He can’t help the relieved sob that forces its way out of his chest. Because Quentin’s alive. And they have  _ time.  _ He squeezes the back of Quentin’s neck and opens his eyes to look up at him through the curtain of hair between them. He brushes his thumb over Quentin’s hairline, and pushes forward to press their foreheads together. Quentin meets him halfway, his eyes falling shut, like he needs the contact just as desperately. 

_ “We have time.”  _ Eliot marvels, voice hoarse and wet. 

Quentin squeezes his hand and nods, forehead rolling against Eliot’s. “We have time,” he echoes, voice nearly as rough as Eliot’s, thick with everything that still needs to be said. 

Eliot closes his eyes, leans into Quentin’s warmth. Feels his pulse in how tightly they’re squeezing one another's hands. There’s so fucking much that needs to be said. 

But, for once, they have time to say it. 


End file.
